He sees the baby giggle—
but not the hours I spend unraveling,
shaking and trembling all the time,
shushing a child while screaming inside,
wondering if I’ll ever feel like me again.
He turns on the TV, drink in hand,
free to zone out, escape,
while I pick up the pieces of a day
he barely notices.
He gets to choose what part of parenting fits him—
the cuddles, the milestones,
the moments that photograph well.
I live in the in-between,
in the quiet, soul-crushing maintenance
of keeping everything from falling apart.
I suffer in silence,
drowning in a thousand small chores
that no one counts but me—
laundry folded,
bottles washed,
emotions swallowed.
He sees freedom as a drink and a show
and a night out with friends but
I see it as five minutes
in the bathroom
with the door shut.
He sees me as the mother—
but not the woman I used to be,
the one who danced,
who laughed too loud,
who wasn’t always
tired and tender and invisible.
He doesn’t see the postpartum fog
that still clings to my skin,
the intrusive thoughts I battle daily—
uninvited shadows
whispering worst-case fears
while I am feeding the baby
smile through the ache,
keep going anyway.
When he lifts a finger,
he is praised—
a “great dad.”
When I do the same
a hundred times over,
it’s just expected.
It’s my duty.
It doesn’t even register.
Even my basic needs
have become luxury now
I can’t remember the last time I showered
I forget to eat
when I am feeding the child
and
I scroll thru my past life-
that I no longer feel part of,
watching the world thru a window
that I cant open.
Some days, I want to disappear—
not for drama, not for revenge,
but because I’m so tired
I can’t see the edge from the middle.
I think about dying.
And then I see his face—
my baby’s face
and think what would he do without me
and I stay!
Even when its so hard to.
He doesn’t see that
this love, this labor,
has cost me pieces of myself
no one ever asked about.
But I see it.
I feel it in my bones.
And one day,
I hope that I will be more than just what’s expected.
I will be whole again.
And I won’t need anyone to see me
to know that I matter.
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 1:46 AM UTC
He sees the baby giggle—
but not the hours I spend unraveling,
shaking and trembling all the time,
shushing a child while screaming inside,
wondering if I’ll ever feel like me again.
He turns on the TV, drink in hand,
free to zone out, escape,
while I pick up the pieces of a day
he barely notices.
He gets to choose what part of parenting fits him—
the cuddles, the milestones,
the moments that photograph well.
I live in the in-between,
in the quiet, soul-crushing maintenance
of keeping everything from falling apart.
I suffer in silence,
drowning in a thousand small chores
that no one counts but me—
laundry folded,
bottles washed,
emotions swallowed.
He sees freedom as a drink and a show
and a night out with friends but
I see it as five minutes
in the bathroom
with the door shut.
He sees me as the mother—
but not the woman I used to be,
the one who danced,
who laughed too loud,
who wasn’t always
tired and tender and invisible.
He doesn’t see the postpartum fog
that still clings to my skin,
the intrusive thoughts I battle daily—
uninvited shadows
whispering worst-case fears
while I am feeding the baby
smile through the ache,
keep going anyway.
When he lifts a finger,
he is praised—
a “great dad.”
When I do the same
a hundred times over,
it’s just expected.
It’s my duty.
It doesn’t even register.
Even my basic needs
have become luxury now
I can’t remember the last time I showered
I forget to eat
when I am feeding the child
and
I scroll thru my past life-
that I no longer feel part of,
watching the world thru a window
that I cant open.
Some days, I want to disappear—
not for drama, not for revenge,
but because I’m so tired
I can’t see the edge from the middle.
I think about dying.
And then I see his face—
my baby’s face
and think what would he do without me
and I stay!
Even when its so hard to.
He doesn’t see that
this love, this labor,
has cost me pieces of myself
no one ever asked about.
But I see it.
I feel it in my bones.
And one day,
I hope that I will be more than just what’s expected.
I will be whole again.
And I won’t need anyone to see me
to know that I matter.
#mom #motherhood #struggle #postpartum #postpartum depression
